


Snippets

by ChimaeraKitten



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, No editing we die like mne, crossposted from tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChimaeraKitten/pseuds/ChimaeraKitten
Summary: Things too short to be their own fic, but don't fit anywhere else. Will vary wildly in quality.





	1. Everyone Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the office bookie is highlighted.

Everyone knew officer Grayson was a superhero.

There were _way_ to many coincidences around that guy for it to be anything else. And it wasn’t just that he was dirty either. The guy was _way_ to nice (and naïve) to be dirty.

Point was, everyone knew.

Everyone.

The officers, the secretaries, the CSIs, the cleaning staff, half the perps that walked through the doors. It was just so damn obvious.

Problem was, nobody knew which one. People used to think nightwing, (because he was Blüdhaven’s only resident superhero) but that idea was trashed a while back. So they were left with the problem of having no idea which one. Well, problem for everyone else. For officer Mark Smith, unofficial office bookie, it was his cash cow. There was a continuous betting pool around it, changing every time a new hero was added to the list of people Grayson-absolutely-couldn’t-be. It was the biggest pool of bets in the office. Bigger than an entire season of football games combined, bigger than the pool for which rookies would wash out. _Everyone_ was in on it, and Mark reaped the benefits.

He just hoped that nobody ever figured out which one Grayson actually was.

(Or fired him)


	2. The Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the little things that haunted Bruce whenever one of his kids got hurt.

It was the little things that haunted Bruce whenever one of his kids got hurt.

It was the grim line of Cassandra- animated, expressive, dancing Cassandra’s mouth when she was in pain. Her determination to just walk it off. The pain tolerance borne not of strength but of fear. “Twice for flinching” she’d said, and she’d sounded disappointed that she couldn’t walk off her past the way she could walk off a bullet.

It was Damian thinking that all Bruce cared about what his ability to continue to fight. When “Are you okay?” was always met with “I can patrol tomorrow” and “get some rest” was treated as an insult. The boy didn’t know how to love except by giving up pieces of himself. Working until he dropped from exhaustion and then still insisting that he was fine, that he could be helpful.

It was the way Dick was never still unless he was hurt. How his energy seemed to drain away, pooling on the floor with his blood. Only this, no bandage could stop. He didn’t think it was obvious. He thought he could still lie about it, even after all these years.

It was the way Tim still _could_ lie, even after all these years. Could fake being fine well enough for Bruce to fall for it. Bruce had to wonder how much of it was Tim’s growing emotional distance and how much of it was experience, hard-won living in his father’s house. How often could someone lie to their loved ones before the love itself became a lie?

It was Stephanie’s burning desire to prove herself. To go a little longer without painkillers, to finish a case despite a twisted ankle, a broken arm. “Look at me, Bruce,” she seemed to say, “I can do anything any of the others can do. You were wrong about me.” _That wasn’t the point at all_ , he wanted to tell her. I wanted better for you. Only she couldn’t see it. That bridge was long burned.

It was Jason’s anger. His refusal of help, no matter what it cost him. The way he was wasn’t willing to show any form of weakness, not even to his family. Especially not to his family. He isolated himself like an animal crawling back to the den to lick it’s wounds, lashing out at a hand offering help, fearing that it would only hurt him more.

Most of all, it was the way Bruce couldn’t help them, not really. He’d gladly take a bullet for any of them, but _after_ an injury, he was useless. He wasn’t a doctor fit for more than triage, and he couldn’t even donate blood when they needed it. He wasn’t a match. Not for any of them, not even Damian. It was unfair, Bruce thought, whenever they had to dip into Leslie’s stores. He’d brought them into the life, and if he couldn’t stop them, he should at least be able to help. Only he couldn’t. He was cursed to watch them in pain, unable to offer more than petty comfort.

It was the little things that haunted him the most.


End file.
